Michael Robotham - Shatter

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ says Ruiz.

‘Is that what you’re gonna do?’

The mechanic makes a show of wiping his hands on a rag.

‘A car was towed here from Clifton a few days ago. A blue Renault Laguna. It belonged to a woman who jumped from the suspension bridge.’

‘You here to pick it up?’

‘We’re here to look at it.’

This answer doesn’t seem very palatable. He swirls it around his mouth for a moment and spits it into the rag. Glancing sideways at me, he contemplates whether I could possibly be a policeman.

‘You waiting to see a badge, son?’ says Ruiz.

He nods absently, no longer so sure of himself.

‘I’m retired,’ continues Ruiz. ‘I was a detective inspector with the London Metropolitan Police. You’re going to humour me today and you know why? Because all I want to do is look inside a car that isn’t the subject of a criminal investigation and is only here until a member of the deceased’s family comes and picks it up.’

‘I suppose that’s OK.’

‘Say it like you mean it, son.’

‘Yeah, sure, it’s over there.’

The blue Renault is parked along the north wall of the workshop beside a crumpled wreck that must have taken at least one life. I open the driver’s door of the Renault and let my eyes adjust to the darkness inside. The interior light isn’t strong enough to chase away the shadows. I don’t know what I’m looking for.

There is nothing in the glove compartment or beneath the seats. I search the pockets in the doors. There are tissues, moisturiser, make-up and loose change. Bunched beneath the seat is a rag for wiping the windscreen and a de-icing tool.

Ruiz has popped the boot. It’s empty except for the spare tyre, a tool kit and a fire extinguisher.

Going back to the driver’s door, I sit in the seat and close my eyes trying to imagine a wet Friday afternoon with rain streaking the windscreen. Christine Wheeler drove fifteen miles from her home, naked beneath a raincoat. The demister worked overtime, the heater as well. Did she open the window to call for help?

My eyes are drawn to the right where the glass has been smudged by fingerprints and something else. I need more light.

I yell to Ruiz. ‘I need a torch!’

‘What you got?’

I point to the markings.

The mechanic fetches an electric lantern with a bulb in a metal cage. The power cord is draped over his shoulder. Giant shadows slide across the brick walls and soak away as the light moves.

Holding the lantern on the opposite side of the glass, I can just make out the faintest of lines. It’s like seeing a child’s finger drawings on a misty window after the rain has gone. These lines weren’t drawn by a child. They were transferred from something pressed against the glass.

Ruiz looks at the mechanic. ‘You smoke?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I want a cigarette.’

‘You’re not supposed to smoke in here.’

‘Humour me.’

I look at Ruiz mystified. I’ve seen him give up smoking at least twice, but never take it up on the spur of the moment.

I follow them to the office. Ruiz lights a cigarette and draws in deeply, staring at the ceiling as he exhales.

‘Here, have one too,’ he says, offering me one.

‘I don’t smoke.’

‘Just do it.’

The mechanic lights up. Meanwhile, Ruiz picks squashed cigarette butts from the tin ashtray and begins crushing the grey ash into a powder.

‘You got a candle?’

The mechanic searches the drawers until he finds one. Lighting it, Ruiz drips wax into the centre of a saucer and pushes the base of the candle into the melted wax until it stands upright. Then he takes a coffee cup and rolls it sideways over the flame, turning the surface black with soot.

‘It’s an old trick,’ he explains, ‘taught to me by a guy called George Noonan, who talks to dead people. He’s a pathologist.’

Ruiz begins scraping soot from the mug into the growing pile of ash and gently mixing them together with the point of a pencil.

‘Now we need a brush. Something soft. Fine.’

Christine Wheeler had a small bag of make-up in the glove compartment of the car. Retrieving it, I tip the contents onto the desk- a lipstick, mascara, eyeliner and a polished steel compact holding blusher and a brush.

Ruiz picks up the brush gently as though it might crumble between his thumb and forefinger. ‘This should do. Bring the lantern.’

Returning to the Renault, he sits in the driver’s seat with the door propped open and the lantern on the opposite side of the window. Careful not to breathe too heavily, he gently begins ‘painting’ the mixture of soot and ash onto the inside of the glass.

Most of it falls from the brush and dusts his shoes, but just enough of it clings to the faint markings on the interior window. As if by magic, symbols begin to form and then turn into words.

HELP ME

Thunder crumples the air above us, rolling together continuously. Something rattles deep inside me. Christine Wheeler wrote a sign in lipstick and pressed it against the inside of her car window, hoping somebody would notice. Nobody did.

Arc lights balance on tripods at the centre of the garage, the square heads facing inwards creating a blaze of white that renders the eyes useless for the shadows beyond. Crime scene investigators are moving inside the brightness. Their white overalls seem to glow from within.

The car is being disassembled. Seats, carpets, windows, panels and lining are being removed, vacuumed, dusted, sifted, scraped and picked over like the carcass of a metal beast. Every sweet wrapper, fibre, piece of lint and smudged print will be photographed, sampled and logged.

Fingerprint brushes dance across the hard surfaces, leaving behind a layer of black or silver powder that is finer than Ruiz’s homemade version. Magnetic wands skim through the air, picking out details invisible to the human eye.

The head of the CSI team is a thickset Brummie who looks like a white jellybean in his overalls. He seems to be holding a master class for a group of trainees: talking about the ‘transient physical evidence’ and ‘maintaining the integrity of the crime scene’.

‘What exactly are we looking for, sir?’ a trainee asks.

‘Evidence, son, we’re looking for evidence.’

‘Evidence of what?’

‘The past.’ He smooths his latex gloves across his palms. ‘It might only be five days old but it’s still history.’

Outside the light is fading and the temperature is dropping. DI Veronica Cray is standing in the main doorway to the garage, an archway of blackened bricks beneath the railway viaduct. A train rumbles above her head.

She lights a cigarette and inserts the dead match in the book behind the others. It creates a thoughtful pause as she issues instructions to her second in command.

‘I want to know how many people have touched this car since it was found. I want every one of them fingerprinted and discounted.’

The sergeant has steel-rimmed glasses and a flat-top haircut. ‘What exactly are we investigating, boss?’

‘A suspicious death. The Wheeler house is also a crime scene. I want it sealed off and guarded. You might also want to find a decent curry house.’

‘Are you hungry, boss?’

‘Not me, sergeant, but you’re going to be here all night.’

Ruiz is sitting in his Merc with the door open and his eyes closed. I wonder if he finds it hard stepping back from a case like this, now that he’s retired. Surely old instincts must come into play, the desire to solve the crime and restore order. He once told me that the trick with investigating violent crimes was to focus on a suspect, not the victim. I’m the opposite. By knowing the victim I know the suspect.